The Tyndall Effect
by FoozleMeOnce
Summary: While the Malfoy fortune may have remained intact after the war came to an end, the family's image did not. In hopes of regaining their former prestige, Draco Malfoy must help prove to the world that the Malfoys care. He didn't, however, expect his family's redemption to take the form of Golden-Girl-mudblood, Hermione Granger.
1. Position, Velocity, and Acceleration

\- A.G. -

Draco Malfoy has always been a man of great pride.

I use the word "man," loosely, of course. While his face lost its roundness years ago, and I've grown accustomed to stubble along his chin, Draco's transition to adulthood has been anything but seamless. Though I can't – and don't – blame him for that. Maturity is a complex affair, and even more so during times of chaos.

War, as it turns out, is very chaotic.

Porcelain clinks as I set my teacup down, and let my eyes drift closed for a moment. It is silent, almost, and the lack of two senses heightens the fragrances that fill the dining hall. There are pastries within arm's reach, and they smell of butter and cinnamon; it is all I can do to keep from snatching one. The thought of a wedding dress contributes to my restraint.

My place in this manor is not traditional, but hell, these are not traditional times. Draco and I ought to have wed before I moved in. Really, we should have married by now regardless. But Narcissa and I both agreed it was best not to push Draco. The commitment makes him anxious, I suppose. It's hardly surprising: his last long term commitment, evidence of which is still seared into his forearm, ended horribly. I often tell myself that I find his hesitance refreshing, and that I will grow to value his caution. It's just that Draco is hardly cautious when it comes to anything else. Or it often seems that way.

Oxfords snap against the marble floor – I would recognize that tread anywhere.

"Draco!" My Draco. His posture is nearly perfect, though slightly skewed to the right. Pale blond hair smoothed into place, he's always been well groomed. He favors a dark collared shirt and black slacks, a wizard's cloak slung over his arm. His face is pallid, but it suits him.

I smile. "Did you sleep well?"

"I slept fine," he says. Gray eyes survey the table. "Is this breakfast?"

I shake my head. "Brunch," I tell him. He frowns. "Are you… Going out?"

Draco's in the investment business. This means long lunches at Britain's most extravagant restaurants. Three drinks minimum. He often returns home intoxicated; if it went well, the meeting was long, and they drank to celebrate. If it went poorly, he drowned his sorrows in firewhisky. Recently, failure has become the norm.

"Yeah. I'll be home—" he pauses, "later." Draco closes the distance between us, pressing his lips to my neck.

His movements are swift and definite, and he is out of the room before I can say goodbye. I wish him good luck just the same. My strained falsetto falls short in the stuffy atmosphere. The ventilation is awful.

"Kensy," I call for the house elf. "Open a window. I can hardly breathe in here."

* * *

\- D.M. -

I was supposed to work at the Ministry. I stare at the building, now, and something that bears semblance to a sigh is building in my chest. But I don't care that much. In fact, this could be better; a future at the Ministry was always my family's plan. My father's plan. Astoria says – in that timid, artificial way, as if she'd only just thought of it – that I ought to be more involved in my own life.

At twenty-six-years-old, I guess it's not inaccurate. My position in the world bears little correlation to my intentions. Not that I was ever sure of what I intended, looking back. I wanted power and everything that came with it. It wasn't unfeasible. In fact, I'd say it was likely; I was the firstborn a Malfoy and a Black. Authority is in my blood and there has always been gold in my vault, and a lot of it.

Today, I'm not quite sure where I stand in the world. I know I'm not powerful, or not as powerful as I would like to be. But everyday people tell me that I'm fortunate. I could have been tossed into Azkaban with my dear old dad, and that thought should deter me, but it's too distant.

I am far more in tune with the grime of these streets. My lip curls at the smells, just as it has all my life, and I relish the degenerates around me.

I spot a boy – around the age of twelve and terribly sweaty. His gaze rises to meet mine; he seems uncertain. "Knockturn Alley," I drawl, "is not a place for children. You don't belong here."

He doesn't say anything, he only stares.

Rolling my eyes, I brush past him

I'm not sure where I'm headed because I'm not headed anywhere. I will walk until I'm tired of walking. (My schedule is horribly unpredictable. But Astoria is well aware of this. She wouldn't mind if I was late for supper.)

I'd been wandering along the cobblestone streets for a good half hour when a familiar voice exudes from the shadows. "Malfoy?" It says, tone incredulous. A dark figure follows suit.

I blink. "Zabini. I thought you'd moved to France."

"Temporarily," corrects Blaise, but he doesn't provide any further details. Silence hangs between us, and I regard him tiredly. He looks the same, and I wonder how that's possible. I'd envy it, If I allowed myself to dwell on the matter.

His grin is lopsided, as always, though this time it's too much. If I didn't know better I'd think he was sneering. However, my presence does seem to excite him, and I must admit that he otherwise looks happy to see me. His surprise, however, is oddly lacking.

After a while, he says, "I didn't think I'd see you strutting around down here."

My lips twitch, and perhaps my enunciation is overzealous as I tell him: "I was not strutting."

Blaise laughs. "Never change, Malfoy. Do you want to get a drink? Catch up. It's been a while, you know."

"It has," I agree, but my voice is still stiff. I search Blaise's face for discomfort – if I was the praying type, I'd beg to Merlin for it. I leave him suspended, for a moment, before I continue. "I've got plans. Maybe some other time."

"What plans?"

So he intends to challenge me. How adorable. "Work," I say. "I have a meeting."

"Oh, what do you do?"

"I'm looking for investments, currently."

He nods, and I can't tell if he believes me. "I guess that fits," Blaise says. "Maybe not what I expected, but it fits."

My brow furrows; I can't help but ask: "What did you expect?"

"I don't know." He's shrugging, and the curve of his smile tightens. "I thought you'd worm your way back into the system. Make use of whatever remaining connections there are..." He quirks a brow. "Maybe even become Harry Potter's best mate."

"You always were the most imaginative of our group."

"I prefer the term observant."

"Sure."

"Scoff all you want. Now come on. Drinks. I'll buy."

"Enticing, but, like I said, I've already made plans. Maybe some other time." I wasn't lying about the meeting – I do have one. Before running into Blaise, I didn't think I would go. A charity organization regarding the rights of humanoid creatures doesn't interest me much, but I'd much sooner sit through a boring meeting than endure "catch up" with Blaise.

"I'll hold you to that," he says.

I give a curt nod, turn on my heel, and leave Blaise behind in the shadows.

* * *

The café is quaint, clean, and brightly lit. Some would call it charming – and, in fact, there is a certain elegance to it. But it's an upper middle class establishment, and that fact is irrefutable. It's strange to think this place could reside within the same city as Knockturn. I push the door open; a bell chimes.

For a moment, I completely forget about the damp, gloomy weather of London. Several customers are basking in the sunlight, most enjoying incredibly small portions on broad-iron tables. I turn to peer out of a tall window, the glass warped with age, only to see a clear blue sky. I chalk it up to magic and carry on.

There is no definite scent, but I know the cafe smells good. There is a low growl from my gut, Maybe I should have had more than a scone for breakfast.

I step over toward the counter where a petite blonde woman is sorting a handful of coins. "Excuse me," I say.

"Hello sir! Welcome to Le Café du Soleil! How may I help you?"

"I'm here for a meeting with, uhm..." I struggle to remember exactly what my mother had told me. "The head of a Being's rights charity?"

She nods, and steps out. "Right this way, sir."

I follow her toward the back of the café, where she directs me to my seat. "I'll return soon. There are menus at the table. Let me know if you need anything!" I nod and proceed forward. There is a skylight above the table. A woman sits there, the abundance of illumination casting a golden corona upon her brunette waves. There is something familiar about the way she sits: legs crossed, right hand propping up her head, left hand clasping a purple mug.

Stepping closer, I swallow. Her head turns forty-five degrees to the right and her brown eyes meet mine.

"Malfoy?!"

* * *

\- H.G. -

I cannot believe I cleared my schedule for this.

Serious candidates only, I'd told Mathias.

He then reminded me we didn't have the luxury of being choosey with our investors. If we want to make any difference at all, we need money, he said. And a lot of it. I thought that with being The Hermione Granger, member of the Golden Trio, attracting interest would be easy. Securing right for House Elves would be nothing like it was at Hogwarts. People would listen to me. My input would be respected.

Unfortunately, that doesn't seem to be the case.

But resorting to asking former Death Eaters for money? Surely I'm above that.

"Of course," he says, shaking his head. "I'm ashamed to admit it, Granger, but you actually surprised me. I didn't expect you."

I set down my coffee. "You're the wealthy pureblood looking to branch into philanthropy? I didn't know you were altruistic." I have half a mind to walk away now. I've had little to do with Draco Malfoy since our Hogwarts years. Come to think of it, I've been blissfully forgetful of his existence for quite some time. The man is only associated with the most foul of memories. For how much he's truly to blame, I'm not sure. But it feels like enough.

"I was actually looking for something a bit more profitable." He takes the seat across from me. I'm not sure what to say. It doesn't matter yet, though, because he isn't finished. He says, "But charity is respectable. Your cause is stupid, obviously, but it's sell-able. Market it right, and I'm sure the public will commit."

I decide to entertain him for the time being. I'm hardly in the place to turn down a potential donation, and I am nothing if not professional. "You make it sound so simple."

Draco leans back in his seat. "Isn't it?"

I don't understand why he's here, if only partially. I don't have his full attention, and any formal demeanor on his part eroded the moment he recognized me. What's more curious, though, is that Draco seems consumed with the skylight above us. Cold eyes incessantly flitting upwards. His long fingers move to stifle a yawn, though I'm sure that action was intended.

I take a breath. "It would be, maybe, if marketing were simple."

At this he smiles. "You just don't have the knack for it."

"You do?"

"I have people."

Draco waves a hand and I struggle not to roll my eyes. "So could I, Malfoy."

"Then why are you taking meetings for investors?"

I purse my lips. Taking a moment to pull a folder from my attaché, I offer it to him. "I've clearly mapped out our mission statement, along with our hopeful trajectory over the next year. It's very thorough, I assure you."

"I don't doubt it." His hands remain folded together.

"You aren't interested?" It's silly to be bothered by his actions, let alone his presence. If Draco has proven anything over the years, it is that he's unimportant. More to the point, he is a waste of my time.

"Am I interested in rights for half-breeds? No. Am I interested in investing? Very."

"They're classified as Beings. And it would be more of a donation, ideally."

"No, I'd much rather invest. If I'm going to give you my money, I'll have to be involved. After all, the Malfoy name will be associated."

My lips thin. "It doesn't have to be. Your donation wouldn't need to be public."

Draco's eyes narrow. He's finally taken the folder and has flipped it open. But his line of vision hasn't shifted. "It definitely needs to be public."

"Charity won't erase what your family has done. It will hardly compensate for what you alone have done."

His voice is clipped when he says: "I wouldn't expect it to, Granger. But who says I'm looking for redemption? Perhaps I have nothing better to do." He stands, smoothing out his robes. "I'll contact my attorneys to sort out the paperwork, then, if we have a deal."

He stretches out his hand; my gaze doesn't waver from it. I wish I didn't want this, but that's not true. I wanted almost exactly this – the only problem is it's Draco Malfoy. And should that really even matter?

So, soon enough, I rise too. My fingers close around his palm, my grip a bit too tight. "Thank you," I say.

His mien is no longer stoic, but rather riddled with disgust, amusement, and a seemingly genuine indifference. I do my best to return the smile when Draco attempts the gesture. "My pleasure," he says.


	2. Begin With a Bang

\- A.G. -

The first oddity was Draco being home in time for dinner. The second, albeit much less alarming, was that he slammed the door upon arrival, shouting for his mum.

"She's just finishing her bath," I say as he bursts into the study I occupy. Closing my novel, I rise and move to hug him. "How was your day? Did the meeting go well?" Draco shrugs, but wraps his arms around me just the same. Standing on tip-toes, I try for a kiss. His mind is occupied, and although our lips meet, it is quick and chaste.

"The meeting was fine," he tells me, caressing my arm before he moves to pace around the room. "The Malfoys are now the head board-member of S.H.O.R.B."

"Shorb?" My brow furrows.

"Securing Horrendously Overdue Rights for Beings," he explains.

I nod. Wringing my hands together, I say, "Is it a charity? Or a business?" I don't mean to be concerned; I'm proud of Draco, but I have a hard time imagining him interested in aiding the advanced-creature-populace. I want him to be happy _and_ busy.

"A charity. Mother set up the meeting, ask her."

I smile; he anticipated my question.

Narcissa's presence is announced by the sound of heels and the odor of jasmine perfume. "What's the fuss?" she asks, quirking a brow. "I heard yelling."

"The charity." Draco glowers. "Did you know it was run by that mudblood?"

Narcissa is hardly fazed by her son's demanding tone. She takes a seat on a large leather sofa. A towel is wrapped around her head and she adjusts it before saying, "Yes. But, remember darling, we don't use that word anymore." I might have believed her, too, if I couldn't see the amusement on her face.

I twist the glossy fabric of my blouse between my fingers and assess Draco's face. "Which muggleborn?" I ask. "Do I know her?"

"Absolutely," says Narcissa. "She's famous."

Draco scoffs. "She's still a mudblood." His mother gives him a look.

"The times have changed, Draco, and so have we. The new Malfoys are wealthy, charitable, and pro-equality." Narcissa's obsession with image is not as absurd as Draco may believe. In this world, purebloods must embrace change or become despised relics. Many I know have chosen the former. Bitterly, I'm sure, and not without snide comments to one another continuously, but the fact remains it is no longer in style to be anti-muggle. Narcissa Malfoy has always been in style.

Our nation's values have changed, and so has what it takes to wield power in it. Influence now comes from money and name recognition, not from one's heritage. It's a shame we belong to this time.

Draco grinds his jaw. "You should have told me it was Hermione Granger."

"It wasn't relevant." The woman cocks her head, regarding her son closely. Draco bristles under her inspection, and I can see him start to fidget. My boyfriend is not without his weakness. One of the most prominent is perhaps his mother.

She continues: "You did agree to fund the charity, didn't you?"

"Yeah," he says. "And I made it clear to Granger that I'll need to be involved. That I'm interested in the press aspect, I guess. But there won't be any revenue. I don't get it. It's a charity."

"This is a step in re-crafting our look, Draco. It's not about the money – we have lots of money. And after this, it will be easy to make more money. People will be far more eager to do business with us. But we need to return to the public's good graces, first. This is the way."

I look at Narcissa with awe. There are many things I admire about her: her poise, her confidence… She truly is a regal, pureblood woman. I suspect her demeanor served a large part in keeping her out of Azkaban. Other than that, and more simply, I envy her hold on Draco. He hadn't been oblivious to her logic – he was smart enough to demand public exposure – but he depends on her confirmation. Already, I see him calming, shifting from irritation and back to resignation, apathy, and aloofness.

Flashing a smile, I say, "How about dinner? We can continue to discuss this," if there's anything more to discuss. I hope there's not. "But I'm starving."

Draco looks to his mother for approval. "Yeah. I could eat."

The two continue to chat as we migrate to the dining hall. I let my sigh out in long wistful exhales. I hope it goes unnoticed.

* * *

\- R.W. -

Hermione is in a worse mood than usual this evening. I would ask her how work went, but there are several reasons not to. First of all, if I do ask, the woman will probably engage in an hour long discussion about her day. It could range from frustration with Mathias' enthusiasm to her despisal of mini-paper-clips. Secondly, I'm not the best at calming Hermione down. I can hold her hand and tell her I love her, no problem. But, I'll admit, my skills are limited. Talking about her job is a surefire way to get her upset, and when Hermione gets wound up, the smallest thing can set her off.

And it's not just stuff I do. Harry's gotten yelled at four times this week.

Last but not least, there is a very good likelihood that Hermione will bring it up anyway. At this point, I'm not sure what "it" is. If I had to guess, I'll know more about "it" than any person would ever want to by the time I go to bed. For now, I can enjoy these quiet moments. The peace before a sodding promised eruption.

Hermione sets a grocery bag down on the counter with tremendous force. She curses to herself; she may have bruised the apples, and she asks if I think we should just toss them. (Maybe her irritation has an upside – I don't really like apples.)

Tossing one to me to check, she says: "I have news."

I drop the copy of the Quibbler I'd been skimming. Luna's role as editor has done very little to normalize the paper. But she sends me free copies and Honeydukes chocolate with them, so I don't complain. To her, anyway.

"Good news?" I ask hopefully.

She considers it for a moment. "No, just… news. I have an investor."

She's been going on about this organization for months and has been obsessed with the idea for even longer. At Hogwarts, actually, I remember her raging about House Elf treatment. S.P.E.W., I think it was called. Now, she's expanded to address other creatures as well – S.H.O.R.B. I don't think she's very good with acronyms. Anyway, this is her dream. A boring, very Hermione-esque dream, but a dream nonetheless. And maybe this will brighten her mood. Maybe she'll be less involved with work, for once. (But I'm kidding myself.) Still, I grin. "That's great news, Hermione!"

"It would be," she nods slowly. "But the investor is Draco Malfoy."

All other thoughts in my head screech to a halt. "Nope." I shake my head. "That's not happening."

Her arms are folded across her chest now; I roll the granny smith apple in my fingers. "It's happened," she says.

"Then un-happen it."

"Ronald, that's not—"

"You aren't working for Malfoy." I scowl. "He's a prick."

"I'm not working for him. He's just giving money to our cause." She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. I bet she's just as uncomfortable with this whole thing as I am. She won't admit it, of course, because she wants to save her project, and she would never acknowledge something like feelings could impair her work. I'm protesting for her own sake.

"I'm telling you no, Hermione."

"I wasn't asking! And maybe this will be a good thing. I can put the silly rivalry with Malfoy to rest." She lights up at the thought. I wrinkle my nose in disgust.

"You can't fix him. He's as messed up as they come. He's just going to hold his money over you and throw slurs in your face." My ears are reddening, and I'm not sure when the volume of my voice got so high.

"Stop complaining about it. It's done. I'm not throwing away the chance to push actual legislature through the Ministry because of your stupid grudge."

"Grudge? Merlin's beard, Hermione, have you forgotten everything this prat and his family has done to us? Done to you?" Taking a breath, I say, a bit more calmly, "When are you seeing him again? I'll go with you."

Hermione blinks. "Why?"

"So I can make sure he isn't a git."

She rolls her eyes. "I'm meeting with him on Friday."

I think for a minute. "No, I've got auror training. Reschedule?"

"I'm not postponing House Elves' chance for fair treatment! I'll be fine on my own. I wasn't asking your permission, by the way. Can't you be unconditionally supportive for once in your life?" I didn't expect her to get this angry. Her cheeks are flushed pink, eyebrows knitted together. Our kitchen feels incredibly small now. The walls, pale yellow, seem slanted inwards. The muggle appliances upon which Hermione insisted seem bulky. Hermione herself is simply present – there is no other word for it, the petite woman increasingly relevant to every aspect of the room. She is a giant, and she is going to pound me into dust.

"But…" I grimace. "It's Malfoy. Seriously, Hermione? Is that the best you've guys got?"

My fingernails have dug into the apple. She snatches it from me and inspects the divots with a glare. "You've ruined it, Ron. Absolutely ruined it. Congratulations."

Within a minute, Hermione is gone. She doesn't say where to, or for how long. I wince as she slams the door behind her.

* * *

\- D.M. -

"My brother is an idiot, but he loves you."

"Yeah."

The voices carry, and if I cared more I might pay attention. As it is, I've got to spend my Friday with Hermione Granger, so I think it's best I conserve my energy. Mustering interest for something so pathetic would be a waste of time.

I can't refrain from one small jab, though. As I enter the room, I say, "Half of that is true. Ron Weasley is definitely an idiot."

Both girls seem sufficiently upset. I show them how little I care by scouring Hermione's rented office space with marked disapproval. It's too small. A small handful of people are buzzing about, though I'm not really sure what they're doing. A group towards the back seems to be designing a promotional poster, and even from my skewed view I can tell it is very much like the framed photos on the wall. They depict various beings: house elves, goblins, veela, giants… The images are fairly creepy.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ginny give Hermione a look. "He _is_ a prick."

"Look at that," I say, turning to face them. "Even his sister admits it." I haven't grinned a lot recently, but now I can't help myself. It feels good.

"I meant you, Malfoy." Ginny sweeps a long red ponytail over her shoulder before bending forward to give Hermione a hug. To her, she says: "Sunday dinner at the Burrow?"

Hermione's brown eyes glisten and she pats the back of her friend. "That would be lovely, Ginny. Thank you." The Weasley girl stalks past me, her shoulder knocking into mine as she does. My minimal interest in this situation has all but completely withered. Playing nice with a blood traitor and a mudblood? I understand my mother's reasoning, I truly do, but I'm not sure if it's enough. I will not – I cannot – stand to be insulted and trampled by scum. But it occurs to me that I don't have to be. Perhaps I can twist this to my advantage.

Looking back to the brunette, I snort. "No wonder your charity's not succeeding. You spend all your time gabbing to friends." She doesn't respond but instead assumes the task of slipping papers into a binder. I take the seat in front of her desk. "It looks like I have my work cut out for me." My eyes narrow; I want Hermione to look up, to acknowledge my presence. Only silence ensues.

"The first order of business," I continue slowly. "Should be to take those depressing photos off the wall."

"No," says Hermione. "They represent our cause."

"I'm funding this operation. I say we take them down."

At this, she looks up, her jaw set. "Malfoy, this is my charity. I make the decisions. While I appreciate your investment, it does not entitle you to make unnecessary changes." There's a self-assuredness in her voice that I recognize from school. It is the tone of a know-it-all, someone who's used to being always right. It's even worse in present-day Hermione's case, because now she's being celebrated for it.

But not by me. I don't find her charming. She's a fluffed up muggle born, and nothing else.

"The pictures come down or I pull my donation."

Hermione's eyelashes flutter in disbelief. "Go ahead, then. Pull the donation."

"This isn't a game you want to play, Granger."

"You're right," she says. "I'm very busy."

I lean towards her. There is, give or take, a foot between us, and I hope she finds the intrusion intimidating. Now, I get a better look at the woman than I've had in years. Her hair, while still bushy, is more carefully managed. Today she's pulled it back away from her face, though her side-swept fringe does slip forward. She's not bad looking, I'll admit. Pretty, even. She could still benefit from some of Astoria's make up, and she would also do well to lose the bossy look on her face.

I'm about to tell her this when she snaps: "Is there anything I can do for you, Malfoy?"

"Take down the pictures."

"No."

My upper lip curls. "I told you that with my money came my involvement. You're supposed to value my input."

"I value it greatly," Hermione says. "But the answer is no."

I grip the arms of my chair, my knuckles turning white. It's the principle of the thing. Hermione should listen to what I say. Hell, I should have walked through the door to a party and round of applause, celebrating my first day at the charity. It's disrespectful.

I take a moment to compose myself. "So, Granger, what's your plan?"

"Excuse me?"

"You've got my money. What are you going to do with it?"

"Oh," she nods, and begins to flip through a notebook. "I've got several plans I'd like to push through. First we need to get the word out and rally support with the public. Then, release an official request to the Ministry. I've tried that, already, but they just dismissed our case." She sighs. "But we can greatly increase our efforts now, and hire more people."

"Do people even know this movement is happening?"

"A lot do. We've been handing out flyers. I've even gotten Harry to express his support. Luna's published a spread in the Quibbler."

I lean back in my seat, frowning. "I haven't seen anything about it in the Prophet. No one takes the Quibbler seriously, so that's no good. Harry Potter's support means something, sure, but how many witches and wizards know that Potter supports it?"

"Like I've said, we've had trouble getting the word out. Or, really, getting people to listen." She is genuinely crestfallen by this fact. I nearly pity her.

"What the charity needs is something big, something huge. It needs to be on the minds of the most important people in Britain." I pause. "What if we through a Gala? We invite Potter, members of the Ministry. Potential investors. It can be the official unveiling of Hermione Granger's latest project."

Hermione stares at me. "That's not a half bad idea, Draco."

"Neither was my suggestion to take down the photos."

"That was a demand," Hermione says. "But I'll work on a guest list. I'd imagine you'd like to invite your pureblood friends?"

"They've got tons of money, and a lot are still respected members of our community, so, yeah." I shrug. "And I think we should have it at my manor."

Hermione stiffens, her skin paling. "No," she says. "I'd rather have it somewhere else."

"Don't be stupid," I tell her. "My manor is perfect. Also, you'll need something to wear."

"I have plenty of things to wear."

"No, something nice to wear."

She scowls.

"How about I have Astoria – Astoria Greengrass – take you shopping tomorrow? She's good at that stuff." Standing up, I smile. "Let's schedule the Gala for next week. Call the Prophet and tell them to put an announcement in the following editions. The fact the party will be at Malfoy Manor will surely attract a lot of attention." I look at the woman – she still seems shaken. "Alright?"

"Fine," she says.

This is a victory, I decide. I'm sure I'll be the best thing to ever happen to this ridiculous charity. I don't expect Hermione Granger to be grateful, but she should be.


	3. An Object in Motion Will Stay in Motion

\- H.G. -

"Really, Malfoy, this is hardly necessary." Standing in one of the most lavish boutiques in London, I fold my arms across my chest.

"What do you think, Astoria?" Draco says, his voice smug. "Is it necessary?"

A woman with raven dark hair and immaculate bone structure purses her lips. She is stunning and familiar. A blonde version of the witch comes to mind—this must be Daphne Greengrass' younger sister. She says to me: "Not to be rude, Miss Granger, but your wardrobe is… lacking." She exchanges a glance with Draco. "You're not tall enough to pull off a turtle neck, and, if your goal with those baggy jeans was to leave any curves up to the imagination, well…" Astoria gives me a sort of smile.

Like most Slytherin girls, she seems to find satisfaction in degrading others. Astoria is exactly the sort of friend I would expect Draco Malfoy to have.

Rather than squirm or blush, I maintain eye contact. Bitchiness is nothing I can't handle. "What do you do for a living, Astoria?"

"I'm a socialite. And trust me, Hermione—may I call you Hermione?—it's a harder job than you think."

I snort. Draco takes a step forward. "Watch it, Granger. She's here to help you."

Astoria waves a neatly manicured hand, an artificial laugh tumbling from her lips. "I'm not offended, Draco, but thank you. Hermione might not have what it takes, and she's far too proud a girl to admit that. I understand. It's easier to insult something than face it fully." Astoria steps behind me and I stiffen. She tugs at the hair tie securing my frizzy locks, allowing the bushy mass to fall to my shoulders. She sighs.

I grit my teeth. "Look, I may not spend hours on my appearance every morning, but it's not because I'm unable to. I value other things."

Astoria turns to Draco with a smirk on her face, but his narrowed eyes are trained on me. I stare back at him.

"And what are you so consumed with?" she asks. "The welfare of House Elves?"

"Everyone should have a voice." I shift my weight, wishing Harry, Ron, or Ginny could be by my side right now, like when we were younger. But they aren't, so I suck it up and push forward. "I wouldn't expect purebloods to understand the importance of equality."

Draco and Astoria seem to gravitate towards each other, their "clean" lineage surely generating an automatic fondness, or, at the very least, mutual respect. It's a while before either make a remark, but eventually Draco says, "That's awfully prejudiced of you, Granger."

I take a deep breath. "Didn't we come here for a reason?"

"Madam Cantello," Astoria calls. "We need some of your finest dress robes for a little Gala I'm throwing next weekend. It's for this woman's," she gestures to me, "charity project. We need her to be charming, influential, mesmerizing—"

"Is that—is this... Are you Hermione Granger?" Madam Cantello is a slender witch. She possesses a very pointed nose and a widow's peak. "A friend of Mr. Harry Potter?"

I can't suppress a smile. Usually, I get sick of this question, but today, I'm grateful for it. "Harry and I are very close."

"Do you think you can get me an autograph? My daughters adore him." She looks to Draco and Astoria, somewhat flushed, and adds: "The Potters used to be a pureblooded family, you know. An extremely old line. Very respectable."

"Oh piss off," I hear Draco mutter.

"Absolutely," I say to Madam Cantello.

Astoria clears her throat; "The gowns? And please, Cantello, if you could keep your politics to yourself, I would appreciate it. Your stitching and design are incredible—I would _hate_ to have to take my business elsewhere."

"Of course, ma'am. Right this way."

* * *

\- D.M. -

When I proposed that Astoria take Hermione shopping, it wasn't my intention to come along. But here I am, anyway, and I must admit it hasn't been a horrible afternoon. I like Astoria best when she's interacting with other people. It reminds me that we work together. I like watching her intimidate. The way she turns heads, how she humiliates and controls the people around her… A Slytherin, through and through.

As I study Hermione, I can't tell what she's intimidated by, or if she's intimated at all. It's obvious, of course, that she doesn't like my girlfriend. I wouldn't expect her to.

More than anything, though, Hermione seems annoyed. Possibly bored.

I suppose I have that last bit in common with the muggle-born. I sit sideways in a cushioned armchair, now, my legs draped over the left side, my head tilted back to face the ceiling.

"Aren't you done yet?" I yawn.

Astoria hovers close by. She reaches over to trace the outline of my pointed jaw, saying, "Nearly, dear." I knock her hand away and scratch the space. I know she meant for the gesture to be pleasant but all it did was cause my skin to itch.

"Why are we doing this, Draco?"

"I've told you. She needs to look good for the Gala." I don't like to be questioned, especially when the answer is so obvious. But Astoria seems unconvinced. "You understand, right, why we've even invested in this charity?"

"To correct your image."

"Exactly. Image is important." People judge you on who you portray yourself to be, more so than who you actually are—I know this far too well. Astoria, in many ways, is ignorant. She was only fifteen-years-old during the war. "Like it or not, that muggle-born is in the frame, and we want the picture to look as good as it possibly can."

"I understand, but I hate to be associated with... their sort." Astoria shudders.

My lips thin. "There are worse people to be associated with."

Astoria doesn't say anything else. I don't like the silence anymore.

"Granger," I shout. "How long does it take you to put on a sodding dress."

Pulling back the deep red curtain, she emerges. The dress is takes advantage of her good figure, the mint-colored fabric giving the impression of simply resting atop her skin, rather than squeezing her. Beneath a layer of lace, a slightly darker silk spills to the floor. The dress is cinched at her waist with a simple bow. "That's perfect," I say. "You look good."

Hermione stares at me.

"What?"

"It's just..." Her brow furrows. "Nothing. Can we go?"

"Please." I look at Astoria hopefully, and, to my delight, she agrees.

* * *

\- G.W. -

I stare at my freckled fingers laced with Harry's, and all seems right with the world. We're sitting on a plushy sofa in the burrow, my head resting on his shoulder, with Hermione and Ron across from us.

"Not another gala—I mean, I'll be there, ha, of course I'll be there—it's just, uh, the season. You know. I hate dress robes. But that doesn't matter, that much—at all—in light of a good cause." Harry shifts a little beneath me. I don't need to look to know Hermione gave him one of her fiercer glares.

"It's not just a gala though," Ron says. "It's a gala at bloody Malfoy Manor."

"Well you'll just have to get over that fact, won't you?" Hermione huffs, and I'm convinced I can feel the tension emanating from the couple. "Or do you not care about S.H.O.R.B?"

"Oh, of course I care. Beings have done so much to improve my life, how could I not care?"

Moments like these remind me how much of a git my brother truly his. He doesn't believe what he says—we all know that. Hermione should know it best, really. But I steal a glance at her face and it's as red as Ron's hair.

"They actually have greatly improved your life, Ronald, and if you would take your head out of your ass for ten seconds, you'd maybe be able to see that. Besides, since when does something have to benefit you to deserve basic rights?"

Ron merely grunts. "Whatever."

"Whatever?!"

"Look, Hermione, say what you want but I don't think the rights of beings are worth you going back to that place. Hell, you can still fight for their rights and not go to Malfoy Manor. Have a little backbone and tell that blasted Malfoy that he can keep his gold and screw his gala."

There's a pause. I'm sitting upright, now, watching Hermione closely. With each beat of silence, Ron looks more and more sick to his stomach, bracing himself for the blowback.

Harry's never been good at stopping Ron and Hermione from fighting, but he gives it an effort. "Ron, I'm sure Hermione knows what she can handle. But, er, he is right, Hermione—you shouldn't feel forced to go back there. I'll help you find another way."

Hermione rises, slowly, and reaches for her purse. "I don't feel forced, thank you. I'm doing what's best for a cause that I care about. That we all should care about." She narrows her eyes. "I'm not some hapless victim, you know. Things other people force on us don't define who we are. You should know that better than anyone, Harry."

My eyes flit to Hermione's wrist, where the word "mudblood" is faintly visible. I remember her feverishly reading about scar removal, after the war. She could never get it to vanish completely. I once made the mistake of asking why she wanted it gone—she didn't seem to care about any of the other scars she'd obtained, and, to me, she seemed above letting the slur bother her. I'd half expected her to wear it with pride: Hermione was, and is, proud of her heritage, after all. And hardened by all that she went through.

Hermione had responded, softly, that she didn't need Bellatrix Lestrange's crude penmanship carved into her flesh to make that true.

Hermione clears her throat. "I better be off, then. There's so much work to be done, as you might imagine. I'm actually going to head over to Malfoy Manor and see how setup is going."

"I'll go with you," Harry says, jumping up from the couch.

Hermione rolls her eyes. "It's only a building."

Much to my relief, Harry plays it well: "No, I just want to see how Malfoy's changed."

"You'll see him at the gala."

"Yeah, where he'll be even more of a pompous prick than usual. Come on, I promise I won't get in the way. If there's any problem, I'll leave."

"Oh, alright."

I give Hermione a hug and Harry a quick kiss before the two leave for the door. Ron stays in his seat, brooding, and barely mutters a goodbye. With a hum to myself, I slump down next to him and give him a well deserved, sharp, elbow to the ribs.

"Hey!"

"You don't like that? Well, next time don't be a jerk."

* * *

\- D.M. -

"What are you doing here?" I don't know if the question was directed at Granger—who had earlier told me she wouldn't be stopping by to help with gala arrangements (a good call, I'd said, since Astoria has more sense of style in a finger than Granger's whole body)—or Potter, who was never invited at all.

It's Hermione who answers. "I changed my mind. I'm sure Astoria is a marvelous decorator, but it's important that the event reflect the values of S.H.O.R.B."

I snort. "And your guest?"

"Hello, Malfoy." I watch him exchange a knowing glance with Hermione. "Doing well?"

Potter is as smug as ever. I grit my teeth to keep from saying something I'll regret. "Surely not as well as you," I finally manage. "It seems like everyone wants a piece of the famous Harry Potter. I hope there's enough of you to go around."

"Well, anything Hermione wants is obviously a priority."

"Obviously." I roll my eyes. "Careful, Potter, or someone might think you're smitten." I relish in Granger's blush, her cheeks flaring red in spite of herself. "Though, really," I say to her, "I'm still shocked you went for the Weasel. Potter at least has name recognition."

"It's a shame you haven't changed," she says, her voice flat with dislike.

I wonder if she's serious; surely it's obvious that I've changed a good deal. The old Draco Malfoy would never help her with her stupid little project. Then again, I wouldn't really expect her to appreciate it.

The clack of heels alert me to my mother's presence. I turn around and she's positively beaming past me. "Mr. Potter! Miss Granger! How wonderful of you to join us. Welcome to Malfoy Manor—would you like a tour?"

I can't help myself but mutter, "Yes, let's start with the great hall. I'm sure they're eager to revisit that." I can still picture it, if I try. Harry's face in hives, Hermione shrieking as loopy Aunt Bellatrix took a bite of her, and played games with her favorite little dagger… Even I cringe.

It's possible my mother didn't hear me, as she doesn't even glance my way, but Potter and Granger did. Harry is plainly mad, but Hermione is more reticent. Her big brown eyes stay trained on me as mother leads us deeper into the house. It makes my hair stand on end.

"No thank you, Mrs. Malfoy. I'm just here to check up on the gala arrangements."

"I think you'll be rather pleased, then. Astoria really does have an eye for it, doesn't she Draco?"

I nod or murmur or something. Bragging about Astoria is one of my more productive pastimes (it pleases my mum, makes Astoria giddy and gracious, and irritates whoever else I'm around), but my heart isn't in it right now. Maybe because Granger's presence is still so unnerving. Even with my back turned, I can feel her watching me. She can't be that mad about what I said—it was low hanging fruit, and my comment wasn't even that ludicrous. There wasn't excessive amounts of malice, or even mirth, in my voice.

Really, I think, she has little right to be mad at all. Not for what I said. For what happened years ago, sure. But even then, that wasn't me.

Though naturally, I'd be blamed for it.

"Draco! Are you even listening?"

I blink. "What?"

* * *

\- H.P. -

Hermione had calmed down considerably since arriving at Malfoy Manor. Her face was so red when we disapparated from the Burrow, I was worried she'd start firing hexes.

But here she is, I marvel. Calmly listening to Narcissa Malfoy explain flower arrangements. Hell, she even handled Draco's insensitive comments well. I had to bite my lip hard to keep from speaking out, but Hermione wasn't even fazed.

I glance around the room, frowning at a picture of a wailing baby, wrapped in fine, monogrammed cloths. It's Draco, and the sight is disturbing. Albeit fitting. I make a mental note to tell Ron.

All in all, though, I'm beginning to regret coming. I thought Hermione might need me, but she seems fine. Too fine? I squint at her, bewildered by how utterly normal and professional she's acting. At the very least, I hope my presence is giving her some sort of solace, and not putting her more on edge.

While it is mildly interesting to see Draco (still on his mother's leash), he isn't doing much. He was rude at the door, but now he's just staring blankly into space. It's hard to care a lot about him, outside of the context of Hermione. While it'd be nice to punch him in the face once more, for old time's sake, my feud with Draco Malfoy feels something out of childhood. He's an object to be pitied and ignored, with only slight notes of resentment. I don't really want to interact with him.

So I sigh, and try not to let my mind wander too far.

It doesn't help much.

I'm contemplating how I might spend the evening with Ginny when Narcissa leads us into the Great Hall. A shiver creeps over my spine. My thoughts abandon me—all I can do is stare. I don't know why, but I thought it would look different. For a moment, I expect to glance down and see Dobby by my side, or a delirious Ron. But it's just Hermione, looking perfectly healthy and calm.

"Obviously, this is where people will dance," Narcissa is saying. "We'll have glowing lights, plenty of flowers… Really make the room feel alive, you know? I think it'll be just beautiful, ah—Hermione?!" Her voice rises sharply with concern.

I turn around. Hermione no longer looks healthy and calm: her forehead reveals and sheen of sweat, and her eyelids flutter as she begins to sway. There's a loud knock on the door, but no one pays any mind. It's as if the world runs in slow motion, and the only thing in focus is Hermione Granger.

My reflexes are good, and I'm already rushing toward her. I'm about to reach out when I realize that a pale arm has already snaked around her waist.

Hermione isn't falling to the cold marble floor—rather, she's fallen into Draco Malfoy.

I thank Merlin that Ron isn't here to see this.


End file.
